The Secret to a Long Life (Part 2)

Things changed then. It went from novice pranks to serious business. It came about when another neighbor had a survey done and Jack realized that Henry's fence was six inches over the line. Jack insisted that Henry move the fence or he would tear it down. Now, that fence had saved a lot of heartache. It stopped the borderline fist fights over real and imagined slights, keeping both pugilists in their respective corners. Besides, the fence had been there for years. When Jack went ot see a lawyer, as luck would have it, there was still time to do something about it before the new property line took effect. Jack's lawyers sent off an official letter that day, the first shot across the bow of a whole new battle. With it, the money began to flow.

Lawyers, like any animal, fill a necessary niche in God's creation. Some compare then to sharks, others object that they are more like parasites. In truth, they tend to be marvelously skilled surgeons. They specialize in cutting, delicately, into the wallets and bank accounts of their own clients. They have a public code of conduct that they ignore, rather, follow a private agreement, which commands the ruthless fleecing of the public. More zealous adherents to a set of laws are difficult to find. Of course, not all lawyers behave in such an unscrupulous way, only the living.

The flurry of letters that ensued would have made a Montana blizzard proud. Every day the proxy war of the lawyers promised to bring financial ruin, even prison time to the adversary. Both Henry and Jack gloated over the sweetness of a winning lawsuit, never dawning to the realization that they were, in fact mutual victims. Their lawyers were friends and collectively manipulated the two in a profitable and masterful way.
Two years later, after all the lawsuits and counter suits, the fence still stood where it always did, and will. Henry and Jack, finacially drained and emotionally exhausted had only one thing to show for the effort. They both had enormous liens against each other's property. Since moving was out of the question, whoever died first would surrender to the other. It became a race to the end, a matter of survival of the meanest. That race had been going on for nearly half a century.
For fifty years they resourcefully plotted the demise of the other. Voodoo dolls not with pins, rather icepicks through the head, arsenic painted tomatoes, traps ingeniously laid and plots planned precisely. They, by luck and care, survived it all.


to be continued....

Secret to a Long Life

Henry Bowman and Jack Swansen were neighbors. They had lived in the same houses that they came home to, when just-born, pink and mouthy. Now almost a century later, unknown to
themselves, they shared a secret to a long life. They hated each other.
This was not an ordinary animosity. It was something long held, close to the heart, dilligently polished and finely sharpened. It was grown over the decades, carefully tended, chewed and rechewed until it took shape from thin air and walked, scratching and conniving, a presence that darkened the street and brought a vague pestilence that hovered and prodded.
Not even God knows how it began. The slightest slight at an early age, who knows. It did begin early, that much is known. It didn't matter what the source, like stolen goods, it was guarded carefully in secret places. It was enough that it, just was.

"Them two, they don't like each other!" that said with a resolute nod and a bit of head shaking by the woman they both courted and failed to secure. She was in her eighties, ten years younger, a bright, springy stick of a woman, skin like lace paper and eyes deepset and sparkly quick.
"Yeah, they both came a-courtin', but I got wise to 'em both and real quick at that!"
Agnes Harcord was widowed with an army of great, grand and regular children. She lived waaayyy across town and happy to stay away from the fueding twosome. "Would have been a disaster, those two just were trying to outdo each other, like a turkey shoot with me the damn turkey!"
Both Henry and Jack were thrice divorced and both were absolute failures at marriage. In their life-long mutual competition it seemed that even divorce was something to aspire to, as if matrimony and bachelorhood were just two sides of a door that they were always on the wrong side of. By the age of fourty they settled down to devote their time to a hobby unlike any other in this world, a grinding resentment of each other; a devotion to the other's vexation.

There is nothing more enlivening than the constant threat of dirty tricks and the inevitable sweet payback. The deeds were countless and above all, masterfully innovative. Jack and Henry were zealots when it came to the art of revenge. In town, they were legend.
"Oh, yeah, those two would prank each other nearly to death. Not that they didn't try to introduce each other to their Maker quicker, no siree, they tried that a few times. Both offum jus' got lucky an' got to stay un-hung. I rememer one time one of 'em, I don't remember whichwas, stuck a skunk in the trunk of t'others ca'. Smell was awful. Even wuse, when he, Henry or Jack, don't remember whose, opened da trunk, out came a stream of stunk that hung widdem fo' weeks. Yeh, dem twose a dancin' wid de devil."
Long past the fistfights, the flat tires, the shit smeared seats, the booby trapped garden sheds, the late night calls to the police, the endless banging of hammers on tin pots, long after the mundane had been exhausted, they got down to serious business. They called in the (shudder) lawyers.

to be continued.....

Montana mountain goats will butt heads so hard their hooves fall off.
I don't know if that is a true statement, I read that last night when I came across a long list of trivia.
A pinhead chunk of a neutron star weighs a million tons.
Just crushes me.
What else? Oh, blue whales get to be four Greyhound buses long.
That's phat.

I want to tell you why I wrote the Squirrel War story. It is a loose account of what happens to us in a world gone crazy. Now, I realize that the world itself is doing just fine, I refer to a process, called ?progress?. Loosely, it is the story of my town and the decline in civility, as I see it. For some reason I am flashing on some unknown old lady that approves of the new malls paving over farm fields because the malls look so good. She spends all her time at home and comes out only to do weekly shopping. The slickness of the buildings is appealing. The landscaping, the colors chosen, the big parking lots, all canspire to give the feeling of order and ?progress?
(Canspire I just made up by mistake. It seems to refer to a bland-ening of the American landscape such that no matter where you are it looks like anywhere. In some circles it is referred to as the MacDonaldization of the Nation. I do not hang in those circles, neither do you. I may not have slept enough last night.)

I realize that I may be a Luddite. Or getting to be an old man. Or am railing against my own unconscious limit setting. Certainly, I am just as corruptible as the next guy. Given a ton of money, I would change. Actually, far less than a ton of money would do it. I am cheap.
So, I do not judge, or if I do, I judge with leniency. Would Judas have kissed Jesus for less than 30 shekels of silver?

The changes in this town have come with considerable controversy. Here we have a division of people that is loosely defined as the "viable" vs. the "liveable". The viable want bigger and more. The liveable want community. I am witnessing the "Carmelization" of La Conner. It is becoming cute and cuter. Obviously I want community. I am not a real estate speculator, nor have plans to sell for a million bucks and move to a gated retirement community. Due to my slacking, I am stuck with the life I have and have to plod along as best as I can. My time here is limited, as it is for everyone that lives here. It is, at best, a pyramid sceme.
What chaps my hide, is that we can't afford a cafe. I have been in some poor towns in Mexico but not so poor that they didn't have an informal gathering place. It is a conundrum. Maybe it is the weather. Blame it on the harsh winters. I think it is a matter of civilization. We are stuck in a mode of isolationism, cut-off from our communal roots. Are all these people here as depressed as I am? Defeated, numb and lost? Medicated? Televated? Maybe. The thought that I am alone is overwhelming.

The Sqirrel War (end)

This is the ending of a series. please begin reading "The squirrel war". You can click on the titles under "Recent posts" to the right.

I could tell that my mother was angry, as she explained to me that her friends would not be coming back. That the Gawkers were making the whole neighborhood angry and that the Reinholts would be bothered by all kinds of people and had decided to start over in another town. Besides, Mr. Reinholt had lost his job, due to taking care of the baby and Jelly.

I went to see Mr. Gramm, who explained to me how selling a house works. He explained that
nobody would buy the Reinholt's place because of the ruckus over the squirrels. When he
explained that he would like to move also, I got worried. He said that I didn't need to worry, that his house won't sell either and he and his wife had no choice but to stay. I was relieved, but also concerned, as he wasn't the same as before, like he was mad at me or something. I asked him if I had done something wrong. "No, no, boy, it's not you. I'm mostly angry that I caused the problem with my harebrained idea."

I thought about it for a long time. Years, actually. I saw big changes over the years, in my town. Eventually I too, moved away. The town had become all about squirrels. Even a big statue of a squirrel was bought by the town and there was a squirrel festival. Souvenir shops and Squirrel theme shops popped up and did a good business selling squirrel mementos and all sorts of junk. The Reinholt house never sold and the few people that tried living there, renting, didn't stay long. Meanwhile the squirrels had become the town mascots and running loose all over the place, fed peanuts and sunflower seeds and even dog food. It was funny, how an animal can cause such a controversy.

Basically, the town was divided. I thought it was way more than half of the people disliked those squirrels. There were lots of them, they were everywhere and were protected by a town ordinance. You couldn't shoot them, trap them or anything. I didn't feel strongly about it,the squirrel problem, but I knew that some people were doing real well and others were ruined. It changed the town, that is what I saw mostly. The place that was a delight for a boy, growing up, had become a nightmare, where the identity and cohesiveness of the community was sold in the name of "progress".

The Squirrel War (Part 6)

Please read in sequence, if you haven't read the earlier parts. Scroll down.

In the fall, other people began to change their minds about the squirrels. It started weeks before the nut trees ripened. The busy little critters got a head start harvesting early and often. Then they got the gardeners angry by digging in vegetable beds, flower beds and even potted plants, burying food for the winter. Finally, they went after the goodwill of the bird feeders, when they went after the bird feeders. Bird watching ends when a squirrel arrives. They are fun to watch, kind of a cross between clowns and acrobats, but when they behave like burglars, the fun stops. The little nippers would chew holes into feeders, so as to get at the seeds more easily. So, about half of the town was having second thoughts about the squirrels. Maybe not a dislike, but certainly a doubt.

There were other annoyances. A steady trickle of curious sightseers arrived to have a look at the town buried neck-deep in attack squirrels. You know how stories get a life of their own. Especially when newspapers get to printing "the scoop". Mike Simmons was the owner of the little gas station at the beginning of town. Visitors often stopped to ask for directions, so he printed some maps that he sold for a quarter. A quarter was good money in those days. On the map, the "sights" were marked. The diner, the tavern, grocery store, drug store, all the businesses. The Reinholt residence, with a big "X" and Mr. Gramm's house, another big "X". Yeah, you can guess what started to happen. And to be sure, most people were respectful, they just drove by slowly, kids gawking and Parents pointing. Sometimes some would stop and go up to the Reinholt's house and knock on the door. Of course, nobody was home. Different story at the Gramm's. Word had it that some actually were real mean, like calling Mr. Gramm "the idiot that got that baby chewed-up". Mr. Gramm was very, very upset. He felt bad about bringing in "those damn squirrels", first time I ever heard him cuss. I felt bad for him.

Meanwhile, other than Mr. Simmons, Jerry Mac, the tavern owner and Mrs. Shelton of the (now) Squirrely Girly Diner just loved those squirrels, because of the visitors, because they ate at the diner and had a cold one at the lounge. Well, nobody I knew called them visitors. We called 'em Gawkers. Mom and I almost never went to the cafe, I mean diner, maybe once a year, since mom didn't make a lot of money. Especially now that the prices were more expensive. There was a lot of talk about that, that since the reporters, the prices went up. I didn't have a job, so I didn't know much about prices of stuff. I used to sometimes go around looking for empty bottles to take to the grocery store for the bottle refund or do stuff for people for a quarter, like pull weeds or find lost dogs, whatever there was to do. I was too small to mow yards, I tried, but those push mowers were tough to push if you were short. I only bought comics and candy, I was too young to buy a beer in the tavern, I mean, lounge, besides, I didn't like beer and I never could understand why somebody would pay a whole quarter for a glass of beer anyway. For a quarter, you could buy a comic, a coke and a candy bar! If you are careful, that can last you all afternoon.

So the town became sorta doggish and catish over the squirrels. I noticed that dogs didn't much like them, whenever a dog saw a squirrel, it would start barking loud. Cats liked the squirrels and would play jungle tiger with them. The squirrels would mostly ignore the dogs, but with the cats, they would keep an eye on 'em. If there was a cat around, playing jungle tiger, the squirrels would start making strange squawking sounds, maybe telling other squirrels that a cat was up to no good. The dogs, with all that barking just got in trouble with the humans, who saw no reason for the dog to be barking like that. So, the dogs would get beat for barking. Well, that's not fair, the dogs are supposed to bark when trouble is sneaking around.

So, about half the town and all the dogs didn't much like the squirrels. I didn't mind them either way. I liked them except for some of the trouble that happened, which I figured was mostly an accident. I didn't think they were cute or adorable, though they do have neat tails. I started to get mad about when school started. Not about school, I mean, well I would always get mad about school. Mad about the squirrels, I mean. One day at school, I realized that Jelly was missing school. I wondered when the Reinholts would come home. That evening I asked my mom about the Reinholts and when Mrs. Reinholt would get better. My mom said: "Never" Never? What? Why! I demanded.

Gleaning for a Meaning

What a perfect day! It started with a feeling of insufficient sleep. Similar to the tossing of a coffee hangover, where teeth grinding replaces sleep and maybe at four sweet oblivion descends. Perhaps it is the juicing. I have been juicing fruit and vegetables, big glasses, one after another.
I got up at nine and on my trusty steed, Bikey, made my way to my friend Alan's house. He is home for a few days. His wife made us strong coffee and toast with strawberries. We had a nice long talk, like we used to on Sunday afternoons, touching on current issues, metaphysics, the strange and exploding squirrels. Yeah, you read right. Next I got a call from my little friend Kieran, who had done a commission piece of art for me, a candle decorated with colored beeswax. It was done in a desert scene with cacti and a yellow sun and even a ram's skull. Kieran is a remarkable nine year old. Very creative and precoscious. Good role model for just about anybody.
Then I went gleaning and gathered a basket full of apples , some volunteer cabbage plants, four yellow squashes and a couple of beets. This from a fallow field overgrown with grass and weeds. I went home and started juicing. A neighbor brought me a couple of peaches, fresh from a street side tree, peaches that in the rain glowed with a intensity of color, deep reds and yellows.
I did some stuff and at four went to a bar-b-cue birthday party at a friends' house. Fantastic food and nice people. Right at the end it started raining. We got all the food inside and the coffee was ready. I sat outside with a cigarette and a cup of coffee, watching the refreshing rain. I liked how the sporadic drops would jangle the leaves of decorative grass, like piano keys played by a ghost for a deaf audience.
With a plate-to-go, I pedaled home and got to see a marvelous sunset. A golden light that lit softly the ending of a good day. My cherry tomatoes, ruby shiny globes and red geraniums beaming proud. In the east a double rainbow, a halo for this perfect moment.

The Squirrel War Part 5

Once the ruckus from the squirrel attack died down, after the reporters left and things got back to normal, wait, no, things never got back to normal, after that. There was a little peace, a breather.

It was the end of Summer and Squirrel fever had hit. The town grapevine documented the spread of the critters and they -- weren't they just so adorable? With their Protestant work ethic and their fluffy goodhearted nature, they set a good example for us all. Especially for me, pointed out my mother. If I just payed more attention in school, did my homework, worked hard, I could grow up to be somebody. Why, I could become the President, if only I would apply myself.
I spent long summer days looking for and watching the squirrels. They kinda were like monkeys, very good climbers and they had a little bit of bird in them, cause they took big leaps from tree to tree. I imagined what it was like to be a squirrel, pretended to talk squirrel and I got a lot better at climbing trees. I made maps of where they lived, what they ate and where their roads where. Veronica I missed, she was gone for the summer, staying with her grandparents. I wanted to show her how good I got at climbing, and tell her all that I learned about squirrels.
My mother missed her friend Eedee. We went to visit her in the hospital, Mr. Reinholt came to get us and we rode there in his old Ford Truck. I got to sit up front between my mom and Mr. Reinholt. It felt good, I was happy. I thought about it after and wondered about my Father and day dreamed a family for myself. I wished Mr. Reinholt was my dad, even if he only had eight fingers. In the heat of the morning, I fell asleep on my mother's lap.
The hospital was a big place. We walked down a long hallway to Mrs. Reinholts' room. Her room was also big, with a lot of beds lined-up on both sides. It was like a giant slumber party, but it seemed that nobody was having any fun. Mrs. Reinholt was happy to see Mom, but there was a lot of crying going on. Crying and whispering. I sat with Mr. Reinholt while Mom and Eedee clung to each other. I looked around, mostly. I never saw so many sad people in my life. I sure didn't want to spend any time there. Worse than school.
When it was time to leave, Mrs. Reinholt started crying hard. It made me itch inside and I got the stomach willies. I was going to start bawling too. Thankfully, Mr. Reinholt took me by the hand and we went outside. I asked him if Mrs. Reinholt was going to be O.K. He looked at me and nodded. I saw his watery eyes, then he turned, looking at something in the distance. Mom came outside dabbing her red eyes and blowing her nose. The drive home was long, quiet and uncomfortable. It was the last time I ever saw Mrs. Reinholt.

Two weeks before school, Veronica came back from vacation. I was jumping inside and my face hurt from all that smiling. We were talking at the same time about what happened during summer break. For a couple of weeks it was like I lived in the best place in the world. If heaven was better than this, I was ready to go. Except for singing hossaners, that didn't sound like you would want to spend days and days doing. I wondered if they made you go to school.
I was a little frightened of God. Actually, more than a little. He was spooky and seemed mean.

When school started I began to make mistakes. It was Veronica. She was a bad influence on me. I knew she didn't mean it, it was me and my lack of experience. As I look back, that was a theme that I would encounter again and again.
Veronica was a straight "A" student. She did all her homework, studied for tests and seemed to like school. I liked being with her and would go to her house, where I got to also doing homework. I even handed it in, where the troubles started. If only I had a dog to feed my homework to. Well, the teachers were impressed. I could see that they misunderstood my intentions, but I have to admit, it felt good being praised. The problem is that they thought that they had finally brought me around. It only fed fuel to their delusions. Even my Mom was starting in on me and began another round of that President of America talk, when I brought home C's and a couple of B's. As it turned out, I lost nearly a whole year over it, that's how long it took to set the teachers straight. The exception was English. My imagination and the endless hours of studying comic books paid off. Also, it helped that my English teacher was smarter than most and had a private agreement with me. After I repaired the damage, she promised to never give me a "B" again if I would hand-in my stories on the sly. Otherwise, as long as I didn't cause trouble, I could sit in the back and do as I liked. That was Mrs. James, she was real neat. She would return my homework or my stories after class, with suggestions written on the sides and in between lines. She even gave me books to read, books without pictures. I liked her a lot.

The trouble with the squirrels would spread further, that Fall.

Return to Sanity

From the "mildly" weird files:

A 42 year old woman experiments with change in lifestyle. Throws out all the "beauty" products and doesn't shower, bathe or wash her hair for weeks. Saves a ton of money and water. (Mostly water, by weight) Read the story yourself. (note: I have yet to figure out how to post links. I is very easy, I know, but I am inept today. Sorry. Paste this adress into your browser bar.)

www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/femail/article.html?in_article_id=477378&in_page_id=1879

P.S. I am working on Squirrel War #5; hope to get another installment finished today.

Random Thoughts

So, sometimes I wish I had named my blog "Writer's Block".

There is a frantic cook in my head, preparing a stew. It smells delicious, I am hungry and all I hear is "any minute now". This is the longest five minutes ever.

If you have never heard of the following "madmen", and you are inquisitive:
Nicola Tesla
Rudolf Steiner
Victor Schauberger
Wilhelm Reich

Yesterday I was a juicing fool. I juiced three large drinking glasses of fruit juice for lunch and two of vegetables for dinner. I feel spiritual.

I got up at five twenty six this morning. Should I play the lottery?

There is an elevator in my head and these elves send stuff up to the tip of my consciousness. If I send something back down, they get weird. Once I sent a story back down and when the elevator returned, out poured a party of skinheads that trashed my trailer. Those elves got me scared.

For M.:
A guy walks into a church office and announces to the receptionist that he wants to join "this here damned church."
Offended, the woman informs him that that kind of language is not appreciated.
"Well, I still want to join this damn church" he replies.
She gets up in a huff and enters the Preachers' office. Out comes the Preacher and asks the guy what the problem is.
"I just won 200 million in the lottery and want to get rid of some of this money and I thought I would join this here damn church."
The Preacher's eyes pop wide and he says "And this bitch is giving you a hard time?!"

The Squirrel War part 4

Please scroll down to read in sequence

My mother and Mrs. Reinholt were good friends. Jelly Reinholt and I were born nearly on the same day, but Jelly was "a bit slow" and was one grade behind me. On Saturday afternoons, my mother would drag me to visit the Reinholts, which until Pudgy came along, was a "Awww, Mom, do I have to" sort of thing. She would drag me, cause I had my brakes on, hoping she would forget about me and I could get on with doing important work. She never forgot and after dragging my feet for a few blocks, I reluctantly slumped along behind her.
Mrs. Reinholt's name was E.D. That's all. E.D., just two letters. Eedee found out she was pregnant with Pudgy just after he got born. You see, Eedee was a "stout" woman, which is a way of saying "fat" without getting slapped by your mom. Some words are dangerous to use around my mother, and there ain't no book or list, each is a painful lesson. "Fart" is another word like that. The way it happened, Eedee thought she had "gas", painful gas and on the way to the bathroom Pudgy came bouncing along. Just like that, with no warning. Fortunately, the dog was snoozing in the hallway and when Eedee stepped over the dog, the dog got surprised. Everybody was surprised, except Jelly. Jelly was just enchanted.
Now I had seen babies before and I could see that women and girls just about turn themselves inside out at the sight of a baby. I couldn't understand it, I thought babies were worse than useless. They could smell real bad (that's a safer way of saying they "stink") and are about as much fun as chewing cardboard. Baby Jim just transformed Jelly. She coo-ed and gurgled right along with her little brother, like they spoke the same language that nobody but them two understood. Until then, Jelly only said one word. Jelly. That's all she ever learned. Within days she was saying "Baby".
Oddly enough, I understood Jelly. The way I figured, she was in school all the time. She daydreamed from morning to night, which is just about all I did in school. She sat quiet, in a corner of her own making and, I don't know, dreamed of babies, maybe. I dreamed of Pirates and Captain Danger and Cowboys and Indians. I never thought she was dumb, I actually envied her. The teachers left her alone and she got D's for "trying". I got D's for not trying. Sometimes I thought she was smarter than any kid I knew.
I had spent years of Saturdays in the company of Jelly, out in the back yard. She was a girl, but she wasn't weird like other girls. I was there to keep her company while the two Moms chatted and drank "coolers". I resented being there, but I saw that my Mother would get into a real fine mood and I was happy for her. Jelly left me alone; didn't talk to me or insist on playing "house". The way I saw it, at least it wasn't school.
When Mr. Reinholt came home, he joined Jelly and me in the back yard. Jim Reinholt was a wire of a man, pure bones, muscles and tendons, just enough skin to do the job and a head attached as an afterthought. Like Jelly, he had a dreamy look and gave out words as sparingly as God gives wealth to the poor. He would unwind his tallness and sit in a creaking chair. Jelly would melt into his lap and I would look at his left hand. He was missing the two end fingers and for some reason it fascinated me endlessly. We played a game together. I would ask him what happened to his hand and he would make-up a story, a tall tale told softly. The year Pudgy was born, I was playing pirates and probably was wearing a homemade black crayoned cardboard eye patch. He told me of flying ships and buccaneers. Of tropical islands and piles of bananas. Of monkeys and parrots and pieces of eight. He never told me the real story; that carpentry is a dangerous job.

The year Pudgy was born was also the year Mr. Gramm got that foolish idea and the year following, the town got Squirrels, Pudgy got his nickname and I was learning a lot about babies.
Babies like to taste stuff. That is about all they like to do. They taste the kitchen floor, the dog's tail, your shoes, the kitchen table legs, the grass, dirt, worms, whatever they can reach, goes into their mouths and gets well tasted. Since they can't walk yet, everything knee-down gets a good coating of spit. I realized that I was a baby once and that I probably went around lipping everything like him. Jelly had learned a few new words, but had reverted to her normal, dreamy self. Mom and Eedee were giggling over coolers and I was watching Pudgy make mud pies in the garden. He was real good at making spit and would follow a simple mud pie recipe. Grab a fist full (or two) of dirt, smear dirt around mouth, lick palm, fingers, lips and cheeks and swallow. Repeat until full. I had forgotten how dirt tastes and judging by his enthusiasm, must be about as good as gum drops. I was tempted to refresh my memory, when the squirrel walked up. Now Pudgy had learned to say one word. Everything edible or tasty was; "yumm". When Pudgy saw the squirrel, he took a quick, audible breath, his eyes and mouth got round and equal size and he pointed, then looked at me and said: "yumm". He had never had squirrel before! Quick as a wink he leaned sideways, reached and grabbed and had that critter in both hands, on his back with both legs in the air and a gusher of spit waiting for the taste test. Unlike the dog, some food fights back.

The Squirrel War part 3

Please scroll down to read parts 1 and 2

Let me try to explain the nature of boys and the numerous indignities inflicted on them by society. Boys mostly want to be left alone. They have important stuff to do and are in a constant fight to maintain their high ideals. At every turn there are blocks put in their way, blocks that have to be deftly circumnavigated. It requires courage, smarts and an unflagging drive to maintain these noble priorities, especially in the face of endless pressure, opposition and a whole lot of obviously stupid crap.
At heart, boys honor their long genetic history. They are hunters. If the fridge is well stocked, their hunting manifests itself in the form of 'finding and figuring out'. There are so many theories and hypothesis that need testing, reformulating and retesting. It is O.K. to get information from others, but stuff needs to be put trough a rigorous series of experiments in order to extract the essence of truth. In the spirit of scientific endeavor, boys leave no stone unturned. Which is why you gotta be careful when you tell a boy what NOT to do, cause, you know, the scientist comes out. He can't help it.
So, unless it is just raining cats and dogs, or hailing fist size iceballs or colder than a frozen coca cola, school is the most unforgivable waste of time. More than a waste of time, it is outrage, as they squeeze you in there with (shudder) prissy girls. Yukko yuk yuk yuk. It is obvious that girls are in school just to magnify the indignities foisted on the boys during school hours.

So, I was very, very puzzled by Veronica. She was a girl and I knew she couldn't help it. Some enormous injustice was done, like what happened to Captain Danger when the Evil Allegorians crushed his hands and he had to use those neat-o gloves with the built-in guns and lazer blasters and they got theirs in the end when he saved the planet earth from those invading hordes of Corpserators that were the underlings of the Allegorians and were about to cut the earth up and enslave the Hummin race. Yeah, kinda like that. Cause Veronica was kinda a boy, and boy how dee, she could climb trees and run and wrestle bettern me. She liked snakes and frogs and even spiders, where I drew the line, I didn't much like spiders cause I got bit by one and my hand swoll up real bad. Stay away from spiders. They can bite worse than dogs. She hated wearing dresses, which I understood. Bad enough school clothes and ughh, shoes, but dresses? She had it worse than me. Maybe I felt sorry for her and that is why I liked her, but there was something else, something deep and disturbing. Like when we would wrestle, she would say: "You better wrestle strong or I'm gonna kiss you!" Eweughhhh yuk, that would get me real mad, so I would try to get out from under her like I would try real hard, but zooks she was stronger than a boy and had me pinned but good and I was a good wrestler, too. So when she kissed me, it wasn't so bad. I kinda liked it. I got all quiet inside.

So it was while Veronica and I were 'alleycattin' one day, which is taking shortcuts and keeping off the main streets that I saw the first squirrel in the loose. I thought of Mr. Gramm right away and I pointed out the squirrel to Veronica and said: "I know, lets go see Mr. Gramm and tell him about the squirrel, maybe one of his is missing." We ran all the way, with Veronica going a little slower so I could keep up. Breathless we came on Mr. Gramm sitting in the pale sun by the side of his workshop, looking very pleased and peaceful, like I used to know him before the squirrel plan went sour."
Mister Gramm, Mister Gramm there is a squirrel loose in an alley across town." I announced.
He opened his eyes and nodded real pleased like. "I know, I know. There has been a prison break!" He said with glee. It was good to have the old Mr. Gramm back.
He showed us the place where the squirrels "chewed" through the chicken wire.
"Who's your friend?"
"Oh, uh, this is Veronica. She's a girl, but she is nice."
"Hungry?" he asked.
Sardines and crackers. Sure enough, Veronica liked sardines and crackers.

That's how we got squirrels and how Veronica got to eat sardines and crackers.

The Squirrel War part 2

This is part 2; please scroll down to read part 1

When I was growing up, there were no Squirrels in town. So maybe the beginning of the War was when we got our first Squirrels, though it is difficult to know when something actually starts; ask any historian. As with trees, the roots go deep and are unseen. And, there are more than one or two roots. So, the beginning might also be traced back to the start of civilization, the first towns and cities. Living close to people is help full, but also the source of difficulties. In the country, where there are vast open stretches and neighbors see little of each other, they are usually real glad to get together. You know the saying: Familiarity breeds contempt.
Especially in a small town. Everybody knows everybody's business, plus made-up stuff.
"People talk," to quote Mr. Gramm (one of his longer quotes, by the way.)
Anyway, you got to take the bad with the good, but to see a town rent apart like this....

As a kid, I roamed everywhere. You know how boys are, they walk for miles on a whim and only come back when hunger drives 'em home. My mother worked at the grocery store, late, so I had a lot of what is now referred to as: unstructured time. Oh, I had chores and homework, but I studiously ignored these nuisances, or if I did them, only with a heroic reluctance.

One of my favorite stops was Mr Gramm's house. Actually, his workshop. He was retired from the railroad and after breakfast would shuffle to his domain, while Mrs. Gramm reigned in the house. He spent all day "puttering" or tending the garden. They had a large, orderly plot of vegetables, fruit and nut trees. Even an apricot tree, though I never saw an apricot on it. For lunch, he made a ritual of opening a can of sardines and with soda crackers, a "man's meal", as he instructed me. When we shared lunch, I felt glowy-happy inside and my legs would bounce in rhythm to my chewing. Sometimes, on hot afternoons, he would send me to buy 'provisions'. A cold bottle of beer for him and a cold soda pop for me. His instructions were always the same. "You can run to the store, but you must walk back, and walk very carefully." He would then add: "I am counting on you." I guess he learned that if you want a well shaken beer, give it to a kid and have them run it around the block. Anyway, we would sit in the shade of a walnut tree, each sipping from a bottle, making manly sounds of appreciation.
Mr. Gramm was sort of an inventor and had many projects going at any time. He was good at making machines work. He built his own radio and I marveled at the glowing tubes that rose like highrises amongst resistors and capacitors. He seemed to be able to fix anything and could create something from a pile of scrap.
Harvesting nuts is a tedious process that involves a lot of bending over. Though he was good at machines, Mr. Gramm was not good at bending over. He also was not good at animals, as we were soon to see. He didn't even have a dog. What he did have was: a creative spirt and a sense for ignoring the obvious. That's how we got the squirrels. He got it in his head to train squirrels to gather nuts. From a mail order catalog, he ordered a breeding pair. He would raise Squirrels, train them and sell them to nut farms to harvest wall nuts, filberts or whatever. He was very excited and I helped him build the squirrel house and training ground. He explained that squirrels are real hard workers and can harvest way more than they can eat. And they are prolific. I didn't know what prolific meant, but would soon get an understanding.
In the presence of unlimited food, squirrels respond with the same zest and zeal as rabbits. The females appear to be born pregnant and by the following spring, Mr. Gramm was neck-deep in critters. His initial exitement turned sour, as the squirrels refused to be trained, putting all their energy into being prolific. His mood only brightened after the "prison break".

I had avoided visiting Mr. Gramm that winter for two reasons. He was in a real short mood and I had discovered something very unsettling about myself. Of all the repulsive creatures on this planet, and there was a surplus of them at school, I discovered I actually liked the company of the most repulsive. Her name was Veronica.

The Squirrel War

Note: This is the first a series of vignettes that will become a short, short story.

Though it is often hard to know just when things start, it seemed the War started when Jelly Reinharts' little brother, whom she was reluctantly babysitting, got his pudgy mitts on a squirrel and just about got his pudgy little face chewed off. The critter, panicked, did what any animal would do: clawed and chewed its' way to freedom, leaving the field victorious in the first battle of the Squirrel War. The traces of the beginning were indelibly scratched and bitten on Pudgys' face and certainly on his psyche, leaving him traumatized by the attack and disenchanted with cute little critters.

No sooner was Pudgy home from the Hospital, hands and face mummied in bandages, that the reporters descended on the slumbering town. It had been a slow news summer and since newspapers thrive on scandal and turmoil, the stories of rabid, roaming gangs of squirrels came as a welcome relief from the predictable summer lull of bake sales, pick-nicks and harvest reports.

For nearly two weeks, Mo's Motel, which had never seen better days, was sardine-packed with reporters that came from big cities near and far. Mr. Morris did the unthinkable. He found the "No Vacancy" sign and doubled the prices. Within two days the romance of being in the spotlight of world fame wore thin and the town began to get grumpy, with all those camera totin', notebook hoistin' strangers sulking about.The fast-talking ways of the reporters were unfamiliar to the town folk, who answered every question thoughtfully, even those that required no thought. When asked witty questions like:
"Was the beast armed?"
( Said with a sardonic grin and a prodding, arrogant wink of the eye.)
Pudgys' frazzled Mom shot back:
"Of course, it was armed--Legged too. And clawed and toothed!" This was probably the only true quote of the day and it was partial, as her added: "You Damn Moron" was regretfully and conveniently left out. Besides, she didn't mean to say "damn", she was going to say something far worse. She had taken to chain smoking while either answering knocks on the front (and back) door, or screaming "hello" into the constantly jangling telephone. Finally on the third day, after the endless parading of Pudgy and the pop flashes of the cameras, after the vain pleas for peace, in the dark of night, the family disappeared. They found refuge with relatives near the Hospital, where Mrs. Reinholt would recover from the "nervous breakdown". Luckily for him, her aim was bad or that lit cigarette would have burned more than the pesky reporters' eyebrow.

Along with Mr. Morris, of Mo's Motel, other people turned a pretty penny off the event. Mrs. Shelton, the proprietress, chief cook and waitress of "Ma's Home Cooked Cafe" hired all her friends to either help in the cafe or bake pies, cakes and rolls at home. She was feeding an army. Not only all the reporters, but gawkers from nearby towns, who came to witness the frenzy. All her time was spent behind the cash register or working the floor, giving orders and ushering customers in and out. She expanded her hours, staying open for dinner and was the only evening competition for Jerry "Mac" Mackins, who made a fortune at "Jerry Mac's Tavern and Lounge". The place used to be "Mac's Tavern", but Jerry Mac was savvy and doubled the number of letters on his sign and prices too. After hours the prices doubled again and he didn't sleep for days.

At Jerry Mac's the reporters spent freely and having been assigned to do "Human Interest" stories while waiting for a real war or disaster to hopefully arrive soon. They interviewed the drunks and locals, mining for scandal. It is amazing how alcohol will bring the worst out of people, help 'em locate long buried hatchets or make new hatchets, for that matter. On the positive side, you had to admit that at Mac's, the reporters were well liked and it was quite the lively scene. With loosened tongues and charged imaginations, castles were built out of little pieces of dirt. Liquor, lies, innuendo and fabrication flew to the moon and back. Slurry tales were told, each outdoing the other and there was fighting, real fist fights. Jerry Mac's "Adjuster", a sawed-off pool cue that never saw the light of day or dark of night, rested ready, handy and near, the cash register. Old wounds were opened and civility died, along with "plain ol' common" sense.

These human interest stories painted a bleak and grim picture of the town and her people. It seeded mistrust and what would later become the divide between the two factions:
The Squirrel Haters and the Squirrel Lovers.

The UFO Phenomenon

Here is some Weirdness for ya. The UFO thing is a BIG DEAL. Something HUGE is going on. What is our first inclination? Freaks! Weirdos!
Think again. The anecdotal evidence is overwhelming. Really reliable observers have reported sightings and other experiences. There is a ton of videos for you to see. Endless accounts by pilots, policemen, military officers, astronauts, air traffic controllers, etc. are available for reading and research. We are way past the first days of the flying saucer sightings, when it was easy to marginalize the few witnesses as wack-os. What is perhaps most telling is the reaction of media and government agencies vis-a-vie these observations and documentations. The silence and obfuscation is telling. (Remember, what is not said says a lot.)
It certainly appears that there has been an ongoing, AARRGH, don't say it, cover-up. Really lame explanations for these multiple independent reports such as swampgas, the planet Venus, etc. don't cut it anymore. Thousands have witnessed particular series of sightings and hundreds of videos are available of those events.
Something is going on. At least that is undeniable. What it is may still be up for speculation.

Weirdness

We all inhabit two worlds. One is the "actual", the other the "subjective". For the past few years I have tried to integrated the two and it has been like giving the Kitty a bath. For a long time I didn't know about the two worlds, I thought that there was only one and that I pretty much knew what was up. Oh, I knew that I didn't know everything about this world, some stuff that I could integrate into my head with time, leisurely, easily, like a stroll along the lake; observing the Jesus Bugs or the Fiddlehead Ferns. There is time to learn the Latin names if I would be so inclined. And I am not, so inclined. But that's alright. I had it down and everybody was more or less in agreement.
I don't remember when I got the "Heads up!" Maybe I knew all along that something was missing, something important. The Kitty needed a bath for years and years.
The first thing about integrating the two worlds is that the subjective is waaaaay bigger than the actual. It is inflated. I am inflated. In getting the two together, it is a lot like putting a small nut (me) onto a oversized bolt. In the dark, with freezing cold fingers. Good luck. So it calls for some deflation and that means clearing off the table. Gotta start with an empty table.

Everything we know maybe wrong.

I hate getting rid of crap. My table is full of notions and laws and rules and tricks. I separate terribly with everything. I am really scared to be without my comforts. It is all I have. I love my crap, even if it don't smell so good.
Lately I have been thinking about something that very few people have a clue about. Oh, I know full well that we all know, but there is the social contract; we agree to not see or if we see, do not talk about:

This world is one hell of a strange place.

Room Service at the Secret Garden

About once a week my friend Pat brings me coffee. He is an early riser, so that when he has coffee with me, it is almost an afternoon pick-me-up for him, while for me it is a cobweb sweeping operation. One thing is that he is uncompromising about the quality of his coffee, so he brings the mother lode of coffee to me.
We sit on the patio and chat.
So here is the deal about people like him. They are caught in the mill and are getting ground up. Ground and reground. It isn't a bad thing, it feels like it is. Actually, it feels like hell. It is necessary. The Mill produces fine Human Beings. Fine fine. Ground to a soft powder that, like water, settles in the low places and from there, the vista is eternal. We don't become whole until we get scattered.

I met Pat before he entered the mill. I remember him as an exuberant, run you over kind of guy. Maybe he was compensating even then, having gotten the orders to go, I don't know. I remember when it started, the crushing, the pain and fear. I remember his confession of helplessness, of utter loss and lostness. Yes, what a marvelous process the Mill is. It turns the pages of life all so easily.
I didn't know what to say to him. I was at the point of crying, myself. I still am, in thinking back. I told him, very simply: "If you can survive, it will make you soft and fine. You are a most fortunate man."
The Mill is a lonely place. It is all you can do to hold on. Many don't make it. If you see a friend going through the grinding, hope they can stay alive, for when done, it will be the most wonderful Christmas present for the World. It also helps to remind them, frequently, to not check out, to not get numb, to stay fully alive. You do that by engaging them in life. They desperately need the frequent reminders.

What got me to writing about this is something I noticed about the time I spend with Pat: Interesting stuff happens when he is with me. It is like he has become a doorway that allows the entry of exquisite offerings from (elsewhere). On a coarser level, it is the coffee, of course. He brings me coffee. Good coffee. On the finer plane, he brings co-incidences. He doesn't do this, it happens because of the settling to lower places. Yesterday, I noticed that He is beginning to notice the effect. Are you reading this, Patrick? Don't matter, He won't understand. They never do, no matter how much evidence is presented. They will eventually get a hint, a sense of it.

Then comes the Forge.

My Favorite Street

I think that my favorite street is Park Street. It is a one-way, one block long street that I prefer when going to the store. It bypasses the big hill and Tourist Trap Street, where visitors buy crap they don't need and can't really afford. Nor have room for, which I have heard from the confessional. Well not really the confessional. I heard it over and over while dusting at the Wood Merchant, where I work four hours a week. I know, not much of a job, but they let me drink water and I get to look at good furniture.
Sorry I got distracted. Park Street has some cool stuff. There are ducks in the back yard of one house. The ducks have their own kiddie swimming pool. No, they don't wear bikinis and sunglasses, you are thinking of another, hipper, gaggle. Sliding Rock lurks off park street, I've written about it in another vignette. If you remember, it is a butt-polished black and mossy rock, about the size of a part-buried Volkswagon. The littler kids maintain its' sheen. Right there, behind it is a large garden, a real jewel in La Conner. It must be about two houses worth, which I bet just get the Real Estate Speculators in a swoon. I'm in a swoon about it and dream of a big garden like that. It is somebodys' labor of love, let me tell you. I often see the gardener putzing around in it. I wave to him and he gives me a toothy smile in return.
Next, is Snapdragon Hill which sports gone-wild snapdragons. They seed themselves or live a long life, I don't know. Judging by how beautiful they are and that nobody waters or fertilizes them, I surmise that snapdragons are damn near as impervious to climatic insults as, say, dandelions. Actually, come to think of it, the snapdragons I planted last year made it through the cold and are singing: "We are the champions," in my garden. Them and swiss chard, two tough cookies. Swiss chard will grow in gravely paths. No need for compost or babysitting. Mary Hedlin told me that the snapdragons have been on that hill for over forty years. The Hill has steep sides on Park Street, like mini cliffs and a Madrone tree grows precariously at the top edge. It is reminiscent of sea-side cliffs. At the base of the hill is a cordon of well established blackberries that are going to be ripe soon. I'm thinking another week till I have Blackberry juice. Yep, I look at them every day. Making my mouth water thinking about it.

The Big Picture

Some time ago someone offered me this: We should go about our daily lives with the Big Picture in mind. The BIG PICTURE. Yesterday morning, I saw the 3/4 waning moon hanging in the sky, a pale reminder of just how big stuff out there is. We are just dots, tiny dots on an immense planet, that is just a dot, a tiny dot in a huge solar system. It too is a tiny dot in a gargantuan galaxy, which is also a tiny, lonely dot in a near-infinite Universe. Which all makes me wonder if I am even conscious. Maybe not; maybe we are like ants, a part of a larger organism or like the cells of our bodies, each an individual linked by some mutual purpose.
Further advice was to keep in mind that time doesn't exist and therefore to try seeing everthing in all its' manifestations. Whew. When I look at you, I was to see you as an infant, a child, an adult and to see the eons "before" and "after". Not yet busy enough? There is more. I was to see inside of myself too. How do I feel about all this, where are those feelings occuring in my body, what am I thinking? What am I doing?
The Mayans were a trippy bunch. They thought that something important originates from the Galctic center and they tracked the rotation of the solar system around the Galactic center. These guys and gals calculated dates, precise dates, millions of years into the past. Damn, what ever for? A hobby? An obsession?
Unfortunately, I can't think about all that stuff and ride my bike. I can barely sit and keep the Big Picture in mind. When I do, I get this yawning pit feeling in my gut. It is somewhat unpleasant. I don't know how to label it or what to call it.

Bad Coffee

Now, don't get me wrong, they are real nice people, but the coffee at the Fruit & Produce market is truly wretched. But, it is cheap and you can drink all you want. Now, after the first assault on the taste buds, when you have them at the surrender table, after all the gagging and eye rolling is over, you get to dictate the conditions.
"This is good coffee, isn't it?" Not a question, more an accusation. Your Staff Officers are enjoying this, snickering.
"The coffee is wonderful." He replied with a tear rolling down a cheek.
"How about another cup?"
A slight hesitation. You note the beads of sweat popping off is forehead.
"I would love another cup." This said with a mixture of revulsion and resignation. The Staff are laughing out loud.
"Gentlemen!" Said with authority yet an edge of hilarity.

I shuffle off to the coffee counter, where one pump pot is labeled "Organic Coffee". I push down on the top. A short squirt is followed with an empty whoosh. Over to the "Regular Coffee", another push, another squirt and the empty gurgling. Both pots are empty and I have less than half a cup. In the center is the decaf. I fill the cup, add creamer and sugar. I shuffle back out front, over to the side where the round, red, industrial picknick tables and smokers refuge is located.

He is sipping the coffee. His stomach muscles, the last holdout to the abomination that is being forced down, begin to spasm. Your Staff are pushing away from the table and each firmly plant both feet on the deck, making ready to spring out of the way.
"About the best coffee you ever had!" This said with such sarcasm that each word drips venom, each syllable a daggers' jab.
His "Yes" is a mere squeek.
Time to rub salt into the wound. "Pardon me?" Hardly a question, more a blatant threat.
"I said yes" Pleading and servile.

You take a deep breath, square your shoulders and put on a stern, yet benign face.
"Finish your cup and let's get to work, unless--" here you hesitate, looking down at your fingernails, inspecting then critically, then to his cup, where you linger for a couple of seconds. You look up into his teary eyes, pinning him to his seat, when you deliver the coup de grace:
"Unless you want another cup!"

50,000 Plastic Red Tulips

I love going to the dump. I don't know why, I always have, even as a kid. This is the story of one of my more memorable dump runs. It happened a few years back, long after "Nuke the Tulips" bumper stickers faded and peeled from the back of cars. Those bumper stickers showed the true feelings of a lot of us concerning the flood of tourists that descend every spring and clogg-up the roads so bad, that to get to the "Big Town", well, you would only go to the big town if somebody was dying.

The tulips didn't show for the show and the local roads were perfectly drive able. It was big news and there was endless speculating about why they stayed shut. After all, they looked so ripe, compact heads brimming with promise, stout stems and vibrant leaves. It was a great coffee conversation opener, asked with a wry grin: "How about them tulips?" Grown men got to giggling gleefully, or became unusually stoic, as if you had questioned the veracity of the Holy Book. The word got out in Seattle and nobody much was coming; a few demoralized tourists hung about the fields, expecting a miracle. "Any moment now", two weeks after the due date, was the oft repeated refrain. It didn't happen. It wasn't colder than usual, plenty of rain, as usual. Many of us wore secret smiles and pretended concern. You know the saying, one persons' desert is anothers' lack of rain, or something like that, I may have messed that one up. Sorry.
The emerging tulips would signal the beginning of the tourist season. After a long empty winter, the arrival of the spring money was a big deal. I think of it as a kind of salmon run, with lots of nets and hooks angling for tourist dollars. Big buses from Canada brought plenty of wallets and from Seattle, endless droves. Those with the nets, had the most to loose. Us hobby anglers, we weren't quite as upset.
Oh, there were false starts. One morning, the town was in an uproar. The tulips had finally decided to be agreeable and had begun to show color! Turned out that the night previous, some smarteepants smartalecks tipped the tops with a touch of red tint. That stroke of artistic brilliance, well, even I was envious. Next day the fingers of suspicious High School suspects were scrutinized. No clues. Not an artist among 'em.
Oh, experts were consulted and there was a whole lot of head scratching going on. They tried nearly everything, minus Voodoo and Human Sacrifice. Well, far as I know, of course. I imagine that a few prayers were sent heavenwards, too. All to no apparent avail.

Finally, in an act of desperation, it was decided to order plastic stand-ins and after the emergency shipment arrived, volunteers plugged 50,000 red plastic tulips into the ground. Even I volunteered to help out. I brought my camping stove and made hot coffee, cowboy style. For the more adventuresome, a nip of something hidden in a brown bagged bottle, served with a friendly wink. It kept me out of the muddy field and let me survey the scene developing. And you should have seen it, scores of poor pluggers, each with ten pounds of gooey mud stuck to each boot, mud brown to the waist, wet and waddling like dejected ducks down the furrows. It was a comedy of errors and a righteous introduction to farming for many. By the end of that drizzly, cold morning, any longing for tulips was replaced by silent curses, some of them not so silent.

When the deed was done, everybody came to look, everybody from around here, that is. The fake tulips looked terrible; an expanse of washed-out-red plastic atrocities, just painful to look at. You know how good ideas, when acted on, often show a fatal flaw? Along with the endless gray clouds, a pallor of defeat hung over the town. It became known as the "Great Tulip Folly". Some were cheering for a yearly repeat.

Finally, the tulip stand-ins had to be harvested, as the farmers couldn't just plow all that plastic under. Of course, they tried to give the plastic away, but what are you gonna do with fifty thousand plastic tulips? Nobody volunteered, preferring to just forget the whole incident. A handful of Mexican migrant laborers had to be hired to retrieve the unwanted blooms and since I speak Spanish, I was to supervise the whole operation. It was hard explaining to the Mexicans what the logic was, to all those plastic flowers. I got a little money and escorted the truck full of folly to the dump. I love going to the dump. I smiled all the way there and back.

Home, Sweet Home

one of the comments gave me a breath of inspiration. I am writing about something that I have dreamed of for years.
I never felt at home. Even here, in La Conner, where I live, it is a struggle. I did, once, experience something akin to feeling at home. It was a town in Mexico. Perhaps it was the 500 year old buildings that reminded me of Germany. Even the country side looked like Germany. I tend to think that it was something else, something way more ephemeral.
Rupert Sheldrake is a British scientist guy that went about proving the theory of "Morphogenetic Fields". Now, I have to add a caveat, really new and contradicting thought is just reviled by the status quo, so---he is not thought of very highly, the heathen that he is. Some nerve he got! In light of his research, which I point to, I posit a feeling, an intuition. A place holds a memory of the past and that can be intuited. So, yes, there is a palpable difference in places to live, provided we are sensitive to it.
Even if we are not sensitive, it affects us. We simply do not know the source and mistake it for some other "viable" explanation.

Second, I have noted that I do better if I am surrounded by caring and loving people. This from a guy who needed nothing, yes? It has been a dream for me to have a close group of friends, like a clan or a coven. About a dozen would be nice. I note that for a million years (of genetic memory), we had this kind of support network. There was a time when children were real important to adults. They were the ancient form of social security and even when one grew very old, would be important to the family.
Much of what I do is meant to engender these dreams. I can get real upset when something enters to whack my dreams. And I tell you, there is a lot of Whacking going on, all over the planet, all over our dreams.

Am I wrong?